


It All Fits

by Oderas



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Declan and too much drinking, Declan is going through it, Gen, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 08:44:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oderas/pseuds/Oderas
Summary: Declan may have been part dream and part dreamer but he was not a willing product of Niall Lynch. He was not an item to fiercely protect or blatantly flaunt to the supernaturally obsessed.His family was a spot the difference game, one of these things are not like the other.He was always the other.In which Declan is equally as emotionally stunted as Ronan and the brothers finally have a non-violent conversation.





	It All Fits

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all my Declan enthusiasts out there. Our boy needs a BREAK. 
> 
> Don't own any of the characters. I do own all this repetitive prose though.
> 
> Enjoy!

The phone vibrated in Declan’s hands, a constant buzz that added to his already existing jitters. He stared out the window of his condo and counted the cars stuck in traffic, to ground himself. Briefly, he considered glancing down and checking the caller ID, but, decided against it. He imagined what this client would ask if he picked up. Probably the same question that made his blood sing with envy and fear.

 

_Where’s the Greywarren?_

 

Lynch men couldn’t lie, not when a version of the truth existed somewhere in their dreams.

 

Ronan lied by omission, Declan lied like a key in the ignition, a defier of inertia, a getaway driver to the thieves and scoundrels in his back seat. He lied like a politician, dirty and underhanded, avoiding the jackknife of truth.

 

They were two opposites, one moulded dreams into reality and the other crafted realty into dreams; glittering bourbons, fast cars, women with hair the exact shade of happiness on the colour spectrum.

 

When Ronan was born the rivers dried up and the cattle wept blood. Declan’s birth was lacklustre and unacknowledged. Distantly he wondered if Niall Lynch, the scoundrel, the braggart poet, the Irish legend; had wept at the birth of his first son. Quickly, he rectified this thought, Niall cried wilted flowers and dream wounds. He cried Aurora Lynch and wireless toasters. He was ferocious and benevolent, his emotions a 4.1 reading on the Richter scale. He cried demons and weapons of war like Ronan Lynch. Niall did not cry for reality; he did not emote for flesh and blood unless he was responsible for their creation.

 

Declan may have been part dream and part dreamer but he was not a willing product of Niall Lynch. He was not an item to fiercely protect or blatantly flaunt to the supernaturally obsessed.

 

Dreamless.

 

Loveless.

 

Useless.

 

Declan half wondered if he was an experiment. A test to see if Niall’s catholic school education and illusions of grandeur understood the functions of the female reproductive system.

 

He wondered, if after he was born, a lone Aurora cradled him to her chest because that’s what she was dreamt to be: a mother and a wife and a golden trophy.

 

He wondered, if Niall called her after, drunk on his ego or his fancy whiskey and asked, “Did it work?” Callous and distant like confirming the functionality of a household appliance.

 

He wondered, if Aurora said, “Yes.” Because Niall’s dream girl was succinct and agreeable and like Pygmalion, an object to desire.

 

He wondered, if this was the moment that Niall planned to have his second child, if this time, knowing it was possible, he decided that his dream would produce a dreamer. And like everything Niall willed, it happened.

 

Declan wondered a lot of things.

 

He was a wakeful dreamer, Ronan a dreaming sleeper. Mathew was both a wakeful dream and a sleeping dream. And all three Lynches were the juxtaposing legacy to a fallen singer who prematurely encountered sleep’s brother.

 

Declan vaguely thought that’s the only brotherhood the man had ever known. An all or nothing bet toeing the line between death. He lived like a boxing match which was to say he lived violently and fervently. He died like a technical victory: heavily anticipated yet anticlimactic.

 

Niall Lynch in a nutshell.

 

The phone continued to buzz in Declan’s hand. He’d run out of cars to count, old wounds to prod. Now it was just his reluctant emotions and the taunting cell phone. Declan sighed and resigned himself to the conversation.

 

“Lynch,” the client said into the receiver. It was the type of tone that bled wealth and superiority.

 

Declan smiled a politician’s smile. “Carrington,” he said, watching the sixth car narrowly miss a red-light.

 

“I take it you know what I’m asking for?” Carrington said.

 

“Refresh my memory.” Declan was already exhausted with the conversation. He kept his eyes trained on the sleek mini-cooper roughly breaking at the oncoming traffic. _Amateur,_ he thought to himself.

 

“The item I requested?”

 

One thing Declan enjoyed about these phone calls was the lack of physical interaction. He was free to do whatever he liked with his face, such as roll his eyes at the audacity of his clients. “The shape-shifting mask has been passed on to your men and will arrive at your villa in about a week,” he said, aware that this wasn’t the answer Carrington was looking for.

 

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line followed by a laugh. “Much less talkative than your father,” Carrington said, voice clipped.

 

At the mention of his father, Declan’s gaze flicked from the street below to his desk, where there was a bottle of whiskey perched by his paperwork. He considered grabbing the entire thing and chugging it, maybe even smashing the bottle after he’d drained its contents. But Declan only felt emotional every ten business days and a quick look at the calendar told him it was too soon to explore his daddy issues. Instead he collected himself and prepared to end the conversation.

 

“Also, much more honest,” he said. “If I had an item you wanted then it would already be up for sale.”

 

“Nonsense, Niall said—” Carrington began but Declan immediately cut him off.

 

“Mr Carrington, I’m in charge of this business now and have been nothing but accommodating to your demands. It would do you well to understand that I have chosen to be that way and can easily chose to do my business differently.”

 

There was more silence from Carrington. Declan counted the cars as he waited for the man’s eventual surrender.

 

_One 1990 Honda, two 2013 Mercedes Benz. Oh a 2007 Rolls Royce._

“I may have been mistaken,” Carrington sighed. “Your service has been impeccable. I’ll be in touch for more artefacts.”

 

“Your patronage is appreciated, Mr Carrington.”

 

Declan hung up the phone after exchanging more meaningless pleasantries. He threw the phone across the room where it landed on his tiger skin rug. He eyed the whiskey again and before he knew it, Declan was crossing the distance and holding the bottle by its neck.

 

“Sometimes shipments arrive early,” he justified to himself as he took a swig.

 

_____________________________________________

 

 

Declan was on a date with a woman whose name he couldn’t remember. Not like it mattered, he’d drank so much that evening that it was a miracle he was even standing.

 

“I like your suit,” she giggled. She had a pretty mouth, painted a deep red. “Can I feel the material?’ she asked leaning in and touching him anyway. She smelt like a florist and her hair was the shade of blonde he adored. Vibrant, straight out of a box, gave him the illusion of happiness if he stared at it long enough.

 

“I’ve got more upstairs,” Declan breathed.

 

She giggled again. “Smooth talker,” she wrapped her arm around his. “Lead the way.”

 

_____________________________________________

 

 

Declan was no longer a student at Aglionby, yet, he still received regular calls from them. Sometimes it was standard things like the occasional reminder to pay Mathew and Ronan’s school fees. Most of the time, however, it was an exasperated secretary asking him to come in for a meeting, or the principal threatening to expel Ronan. When those calls arrived, Declan would nurse his drink while he promised a significant portion of their inheritance to the school.

 

Currently it was the same situation. The principal complaining about Ronan’s slipping grades, his lack of attendance, his general misconduct.

 

“These aren’t the values Aglionby stands for,” he said tersely.

 

Declan rolled his eyes and took a sip of drink. He was aware. Aglionby stood for bribery and fortune, it stood for smug teenage boys who wore their family’s money and luckily, the Lynches had plenty of that.

 

“I apologise on behalf of my brother,” Declan said, launching into the usual spiel he gave the principal. “He’s taken our father’s death the hardest and he’s working to improve himself. He only has a few months until graduation, if you could please overlook this.”

 

“This is inexcusable behaviour, I can’t allo—”

 

“I understand,” Delcan cut in, “it’s a decision you have to make. I’ll find another place to pledge library funds to.”

 

The shuffling of papers and hushed whispers could be heard from the principal’s end of the line. Declan listened while he refilled his glass. After a minute or so the principal spoke on the line.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Still here,” Declan said, inspecting the colour of his drink.

 

“We may have been too harsh on Ronan, he’s still an outstanding student and we’d love to have him become one of our alumni.”

 

“Glad we agree. I’ll be in touch about the library soon.” He hung up the phone and stared at his ceiling. Declan was going to have to talk to Ronan soon, a conversation he always dreaded. He sighed and took another sip of drink.

 

 

_____________________________________________

 

Through the help of Gansey and a hint of blackmail, Declan had somehow managed to get Ronan alone. They were stood in Monmouth Manufacturing’s extensive parking lot, Ronan glowering off in the distance and Declan tiredly leaning against his car.

 

“We’re all a little bit of his dream,” Declan said exasperatedly. He was tired of easing them into these topics. He was just going to open the can of worms and if it exploded in his face then he’d deal with it. “You especially. A subject in all his grand tales, an origin story likened only to one of his magnitude.”

 

Ronan turned to stare at him, face blank, eyes a similar icy blue. Declan couldn’t tell if he was looking in a mirror or at his father. He squashed his bubbling irritation at Ronan’s indifference and continued to convey his point. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

 

Ronan was an unsprung switchblade, “A lot of douchery and a hint of resentment.”

 

Declan would not be goaded. “We’re all his dreams,” he reiterated firmly, he emphasised the _we_ as a reminder to himself. “That means we’re a little asleep too.”

 

Declan could see the exact moment when his words registered with Ronan. The moment when his raging expression smoothed to that of warm gravel during summer at The Barns. He was youthful now and reminiscent of the boy Declan had been trying to protect his entire life.

 

Ronan was quiet, even his eyes that waged hourly wars were silent.

 

“That part isn’t going to wake up, not in you and definitely not in me,” distantly, Declan realised that it had been years since they’d spoken this much without devolving into a fight.

 

“And what?” Ronan said finally, his tone lacking its usual bite. A wounded animal.

 

“You’re the dreamer,” Declan said lightly, “you can choose to sleep forever if you want. You can choose to be like dad.” He didn’t add the extra thought, _loved by no one and remembered by no one that he didn’t create_. He knew, however, from the way Ronan averted his gaze that he reached the same conclusion. “But he told me to make sure that Ronan isn’t the name of just another spear.”

 

Ronan didn’t meet his eyes. Declan assumed he saw Niall in him too. “Piss off.” He kicked at the pavement, “is this you taking inventory? Surveying the damage of this model?”

 

Declan’s eyes widened. Ronan was crying. He was crying. He did not weep dream objects or strange phenomena. He had Niall Lynch’s eyes but none of the bite. Declan felt like he was seeing his brother for the first time.

 

“You want me to go into Cabeswater and stay there forever?” Ronan continued with his grief filled rant, oblivious to the life changing epiphany Declan was experiencing. “You could’ve f**ng told me to piss off instead of subjecting me to this speech.”

 

Declan realised that he was stupid. He realised that maybe if he had let go of his resentment, he would’ve seen the burden of being a Greywaren. If he’d projected his anger at the correct recipient, instead of using Ronan as a surrogate, he would’ve known that he was still his sensitive little brother. If he’d chosen to address his issues with Niall, then, maybe they could have bonded over their shared scumminess.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Declan said. The emotion in his throat was a thick syrup. He was reminded of the honey Aurora lovingly packaged at the farmer’s market.

 

Ronan still kept his gaze on the floor. Declan thought this was for best because if they’re two pairs of Niall Lynch mirrors met, he might have cried too. The grief and longing and regret hit him all at once.

 

 He missed Aurora, he missed her soft touches and airy voice. He missed the way she read to him. He missed her little flaws, the way she wasn’t confrontational or rude because Niall hadn’t dreamt that for her.

 

Declan even missed his father. Longed to see what foreign object he’d whisk into his dream museum. Yearned for bloody boxing matches and too much responsibility. Wished that he’d regale their household with his famous half-truths. The slightly masochistic part of him even missed the stinging comments.

 

Declan rubbed his eyes. “You know I don’t want you gone.” This was a deeply enlightening conversation to him, the boy who thought he never belonged. To think Ronan thought the same.

 

“Liar,” Ronan said almost tauntingly.

 

“It’s too easy for me to abandon you,” Declan said knowing that Ronan would only respond to the harshness. Another side effect of being born a Lynch. “I could’ve done that fifty traffic tickets ago, forty suspensions ago, thirty illegal drag races ago.”

 

Ronan finally looked at him only to glare ferociously, his soldier like irises ready to raze cities to the ground. “F**k you.”

 

Declan continued anyway. “Twenty failed grades ago, ten fist fight ago. You’re stupidly expensive tattoo ago,” he said making eye contact with Ronan. All Lynch men had armies in their eyes and weapons in their mouths.

 

 “But I didn’t. I didn’t because you and Mathew are worth the trouble. I didn’t because it’s not us against each other, it’s us against dad and us against his enemies.”

 

Ronan cussed up a storm.

 

“Careful there,” Declan said, “don’t want you to burst into flames this Sunday.”

 

Ronan made a gesture that supported Declan’s spontaneous combustion theory.

 

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Ronan asked suddenly.

 

“Who knows why he did anything. He was a liar Ronan, a liar that could create truth.”

 

But Ronan didn’t seem to want that answer. Forever the boy who idolised a false deity

 

“You weren’t the only one that could keep secrets,” he said almost petulantly.

 

“Which secret did he value more?” Declan said, exhaustion leaking into his tone. He’d learnt so much in this conversation, felt so much and all he wanted to do was curl up with a bottle and pretend he didn’t exist.

 

It was Ronan’s turn to understand him. His eyes flicked pensively to Declan. “Bull,” he said violently, a knife at a slaughter house.

 

“Everyone has favourites, you do the math.” Declan bit back a withering retort about Aglionby and grades, just because he had armaments on his tongue didn’t mean he had to use them.

 

Ronan was quiet again. Declan took this time to analyse how out of depth he looked. An empty fuel tank, an engineless car. Stagnant when he was meant to be: liquid freedom, solid speed, turgid ego.

 

Ronan seemed to be struggling to come up with words and Declan took pity on him. “It’s fine,” he said surprised to see he half meant it. “You do your dreamer thing. Mathew does his dream thing. I do my realism thing. It all fits.”

 

“It all fits,” Ronan repeated except when he said it, it was a criminal act. It all fits _,_ like they were stuffing bodies in a trunk and marvelling at its spaciousness. In a way they were. He was mentally loading in all his murdered demons one by one.

 

“You can’t have dreams without a reality first,” Declan said.

 

Ronan snorted, “Cheesy.” His raven came swooping down then and perched itself onto his outstretched arm. “Kerah,” it crowed in amusement.

 

Declan rolled his eyes but carried on, “Dad didn’t have reality, but you do.” He levelled his gaze with Ronan. Two mirrors, an obvious trap.

 

It all fits.

 

“Don’t make his mistakes.”

 

Once again Ronan was silent, and Declan had to adjust to his foreign reaction.

 

“Thanks that clears up my fear of getting bashed to death with a tyre,” he responded finally.

 

Declan blinked.

 

Ronan blinked.

 

Chainsaw blinked.

 

“That’s f**cking bleak,” Declan said to break the silence.

 

“I don’t lie,” Ronan said.

 

“So, you really want to be a farmer?” Declan asked suddenly.

 

Ronan glanced up from petting chainsaw. “At the barns?” He said, expression guarded. “Yeah.”

 

And that’s when Declan finally got it. He understood that this wasn’t rebellion on Ronan’s part but a genuine desire. An attachment to the place that had made them both. The only place in the world that made sense to him.

 

The Barns was Niall Lynch’s museum but to Ronan it was his truth, his home, his pet project. Something to lovingly raise.

 

Declan got it.

 

He got that Ronan thrived wading through mud in his rubber boots while he breathed in the magic, while he exhaled the way he was meant to.

 

Declan got it.

 

He got that seated behind a desk or stuffed in a neatly pressed suit was his personal dream but Ronan’s worst nightmare.

 

_He got it._

 

“Okay,” Declan finally said.

 

Ronan’s hand froze on Chainsaw’s wing. He shot Declana sceptical look. “This is where you start lecturing me,” he prompted.

 

“I won’t.”

 

“You won’t?” Ronan repeated, in disbelief.

 

“Yes, I won’t. You seem serious about this,” Declan said, taking secret pleasure in Ronan’s confusion. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for you to be serious.”

 

Ronan didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Declan got it.

 

“Want to go see Mathew?” Declan offered as a change of subject.

 

Ronan shrugged and for the first time, got into Declan’s car voluntarily.

 

Declan didn’t want to ruin their progress by saying the wrong thing so instead he turned the radio to the ugly electronica Ronan listened to and started driving. From the corner of his eye he saw Ronan’s lips pull into a genuine smile. Declan was wearing a matching one.

 

Two Niall Lynch mirrors, this time aimed at the world.

 

It all fits.

**Author's Note:**

> Lowkey healed myself through that brotherly conversation. Always here for some Lynch brothers drama. 
> 
> Also full disclosure, had way too much fun writing this. Do some of the prose and metaphors make any sense? Probably not but self indulgent is apparently my writing brand, so please humour me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
